


Graveyard of Adrift Fics

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 13:45:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17961701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: These will mostly be snippets and ideas I've had with no real rhyme or reason to them. It is very likely that they will never be finished unless You guys really want them. This will likely be updated infrequently and will contain both fandom and non-fandom works. My hope is to both compile my ideas and track my progress as a writer. Thanks for joining me on this living fic and ever-extending journey towards authordom.





	1. Cupboards

Harry carried the last box across the threshold and glanced around the entryway with a soft smile. Draco and himself had been living together for quite some time, bouncing between sleeping at Grimmauld Place and Draco's flat but had refrained from purchasing a house. Harry had to admit that though he loved Draco dearly, he was fearful of falling back into the easy animosity of their school days. While fights were infrequent, their intensity was shocking. Things broke, words were flung about like knives and both parties usually wound up in tears. Though they always found some way to soothe the wounds between them, some sharp barbs still snuck up on him from the recesses of his subconscious during particularly bad days. Harry gazed down the hall with a faraway gaze, mind clouding and replacing the wood paneling with dark stone and warm summer air with the cold drafts of Scotland. He stood for a long time, lost in a memory. A memory of the day when everything changed. 

~-~-~-~-~-~

Draco strolled swiftly down the dungeon corridor, the winter chill seeping into his bones from the cobbles beneath his feet. He glanced around nervously before pulling his cloak a bit tighter around his quivering frame and continuing towards the entrance to the Slytherin Common room. It was a dangerous time to be a Slytherin, particularly one walking about alone at night in a place where people seeking revenge could easily attack with no one any the wiser. After the war, many people began attacking solitary Slytherins in the halls. Everyone had lost people to the Death Eaters, and the professors tended to look the other way if a Slytherin happened to be hexed or 'accidentally' transfigured during a lesson. It was even worse for confirmed Death Eaters _even if he hadn't wanted any part of it ... _As he walked down the corridors to get to class, he was met with constant sneers and accusations. A young Hufflepuff girl had walked up to him on the first day and asked if he been one of the monsters who had killed her family on a raid. How was he supposed to respond to that? From that day, passing time was filled with a chorus of the names of the lost shouted from all sides.__

A soft sob shook Draco from his musings. He shook himself and looked around wildly, hand inching toward his pocket for his wand before grasping it on the handle. He heard the sound again, followed by a whimper. He crept toward the only room in the hall, an empty potions lab, and stilled just shy of the doorway. A rounded oak door sat on the hinges, hanging slightly open. A thin shaft of light fell through the gap, illuminating the darkness of the surrounding corridor. Draco edged around the door and peered inside, hand flying to his mouth to hide his gasp, reeling back. The Boy-Who-Refused-To-Die was curled up tightly near the worktable shuddering, arms wrapped around his knees. He had removed his outer robe and was left in only an undershirt and his uniform trousers. In his panic, his fingernails had cut through the skin of his arms and rivulets of blood ran from the crescents and dripped onto the floor. Draco gripped the wall next to the doorway in a bruising grip, lost in visions of a different arm with an ugly black tattoo. _Fingers desperately clawing at the mark, trying to remove the unyielding filthiness left behind by long, scale-covered fingers, blood trickling from the wounds; a dark face in the mirror with slit-pupiled crimson eyes watching... HE was always watching and it never stopped, there was no escape and Draco was going to die in that cold bathroom with the ghost of a dead girl giggling in his ears- _He took a shuddering breath. Now was not the time to think of such things. All thoughts of tormenting his supposed rival further had been abandoned in that moment, and Draco pushed through the door in a rush to comfort him. He knelt before the shaking boy and gently grasped Potter's hands before attempting to prise them from the wounds.  
__

"Potter, POT- Harry, Harry... Shhhhhhhh. It's alright" Draco intoned, trying to keep his voice soft. Potter flinched violently and scrambled away from him, ripping his hands back and clawing at the flagstone floor beneath him.

"No, no nonononononono. Please, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, I swear. Please no!" Potter screamed, continuing to chant apologies as Draco pulled him into his arms. Draco applied no pressure, simply held him. He had never felt so utterly lost. In a few moments, everything he knew about the Gryffindor had changed dramatically. He wasn't as pampered as he had assumed. It almost sounded like he could have been... Draco shook himself. Now was not the time to psychoanalyze the savior of the wizarding world. He needed to get Pott-... _Harry _. He needed to get_ Harry_ to breathe normally and snap out of whatever episode was occurring.  
_Thank Merlin for Madame Pomfrey recommending him to Mungo's for healer training._  
"Harry, I need you to come back to me, ok? Just focus on my breath." Draco murmured, locking eyes with the boy while purposefully exaggerating the start and end of each inhalation. This continued for several minutes before Draco saw any change, relaxing as Harry took a deep, shuddering breath. "That's it, just keep doing that. You're doing well. You're safe, alright? I'm not going to hurt you." As Harry's breath slowed to a reasonable pace, Draco released his grip. At last, the body that had been tensed with fear slackened against the lean presence next to him. Harry sighed softly as his eyes fluttered closed, drifting off into an exhausted sleep.

~-~-~-~-~-~

In the beginning Harry was wary of Draco's motives. Who in their right mind wouldn't be, after all Draco had done, after all Harry had seen? These worries proved fruitless, however, and as time passed they grew closer. They talked about their history and the war, comforting each other when the darkness of night brought back flashes of bright green, blood red, and sickening yellow. When poisonous jabs flew through the corridors, Draco no longer had to face them alone. In return, Draco sprang to action when Harry's ghosts came knocking in the form of a teen with pink hair in the supermarket, a toothy grin coming from behind a camera, or that of a black dog passing on the street. All in all, the life they built together was a welcome bit of serendipity after the chaos of the years before. Now, they could build a tangible sanctuary to match that inner peace. There was only one thing that could stand in their way, a threat to the peace that Harry had miraculously managed to keep Draco blissfully unaware of.

The Cupboard.

It sat in the entry hallway mockingly, it's deep brown paneling oppressive compared to the honey-toned walls around it. It wasn't as though he could say the only reason the house of their dreams wasn't suitable was because of a bloody boot cupboard, now could he? The rest of the house was utterly perfect, with warm paint and a brilliant kitchen with a convection oven and floating island. Even the yard was perfect, fairly large and neatly groomed with pre-existing wards that went high enough that they could play seeker's matches without fear of detection. Flowers and vining plants crept up the walls of the Victorian providing a fairytale feel that even Luna would be proud of.

Harry adored the house, and he had worked too hard for too long to allow his childhood (or lack thereof) ruin all of the wonderful things Draco and himself had worked for. The Dursleys didn’t deserve the satisfaction of ruining his life any further. He steeled himself and walked briskly past the offending door, entering the kitchen and gently setting down the cardboard box filled with dishes with a soft sigh of relief. Draco followed after him, levitating all of their other kitchenware behind himself before setting it down with a flick of his wand.

“That’s the last of it.” Draco said, rubbing his hands together to remove nonexistent dust and smiling gently in satisfaction. Harry threw his head back with a smile so wide that it threatened to break his face.

“Finally, our own place. Isn’t it wonderful?” He laughed emphatically, throwing his arms out and spinning in a circle.  
Draco glanced over at Harry and raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to his joyful partner.

“I just hope you know that I will dictate all design choices when it comes to decorating.” Draco drawled as he drew closer to Harry.

The latter huffed and turned to face Draco, slender arms crossed indignantly across his chest .

“Is that so? I’ll have you know that I know plenty about interior design.”

Draco slid his arms around his lover and drew him closer with an expression of fond exasperation painted across his face and scoffed.

“I highly doubt that. Regardless, you certainly won’t be decorating it. Have you seen the way you dress? It’s a wonder you aren’t mistaken for a pauper, what with these muggle rags you insist on wearing.”

Harry snorted softly and wrapped his arms around Draco’s neck, fingers twining together and drawing him in until their foreheads were mere inches apart.

“You didn’t seem to mind last night,” he whispered sultrily, raising an eyebrow and winking at his lover.

Draco sighed and closed the distance, their noses brushing as the lovers kissed softly. Harry would never get enough of these kisses. He loved the rough, passionate kisses fueled by jealousy and the deep, seductive ones he got when Draco felt particularly frisky but these, these languid kisses that seemed to be filled with whispered promises were held most dear. The soft brush of eyelashes against his cheeks, the warmth of a body next to him, the comforting hold and chaste brushes of lips that said _I love you, I love you, We have all the time in the world, I love you _while enveloping him in the scent of his beloved to such an extent that he could drown in it… These kisses were sweet ambrosia, and Harry would bask in the warmth they filled him with forever if he could.__

Harry drew back slowly, resting his forehead against Draco's before releasing him with a parting peck.

" I suppose we ought to unpack the kitchen at least, right?" He asked, severing the packing tape on several boxes with a flick of his wand and levitating all of the dishes onto the counter.

"Yes, that would be the proper thing to do. I'll get the plates and such, Merlin knows you have no organizational skills whatsoever... Could you take the Quidditch gear out in the cupboard? Then it won't get in the way while I try to correct this travesty of a kitchen. Honestly, why you thought quidditch and fine china went together in this box I will never guess." Draco replied. He was practically dancing around the kitchen, flicking his wand here and there to ensure _those _plates went into _that _cabinet, conjuring up vases and drawer organizers out of thin air and arranging everything just so.____

Harry took a moment to collect himself before replying. There was no point in revealing just how shaken he was at the thought of a cupboard. For crying out loud, it was just a storage room ( albeit a small one). There was no reason to get so worked up. " Sure. And for your information Mr. Too-Posh-To-Function, I organized by what we would use most. There's no need to unpack everything just to play a game of pickup Quidditch." Harry felt a wave of relief wash over him when his voice didn't shake while replying. If it had, there would have been no way to conceal his irrational fear. Once revealed, he was certain Draco would make a huge deal out of it and leave. Who would want a savior who was scared of a bloody broom cupboard? It was pathetic, and while it was only a matter of time before Draco discovered him Harry couldn't help but want to buy himself a few more months with the man who had brought him so much comfort.

Steeling himself, Harry picked up the box of quidditch gear, shrank it, and walked out of the kitchen, softly closing the door behind himself. He approached the cupboard cautiously, unlatching the bolt and allowing the door to creak open. The space was small, around three feet wide by four feet long with a slanted ceiling that measured three feet high at its highest point. The back wall was covered in shelves that were coated in a thick layer of dust, reducing the space further, and a single light bulb in the center of the ceiling seemed to be the only source of light. Harry grasped the threadbare length of twine hanging down next to the lightbulb and pulled it down firmly. With a soft _Schick-schick-schick _the bulb flickered before crackling to life, illuminating the small room in a soft yellow that seemed to catch on the dust motes in the air and the spiderwebs tucked high in the corners on the space. Glancing around the space, Harry noticed with growing apprehension that the small hooks on the sides of the cupboard would not be able to hold the Quidditch gear on their own. He would have to go _inside _the cupboard to place the balls onto the shelves. His breath quickened as he placed the shrunken box into a pocket and, gathering up all of his strength, he plunged into the cupboard. He screwed his eyes tightly shut and crawled his way along the floor, moving forward inch by agonizing inch until he reached the shelves on the back wall. Harry opened his eyes slowly as dark spots danced around the small space. Harry slowly rose up, ducking his head and sitting back on his heels as he reached into his pocket and removed the shrunken box.____


	2. Sensory Writing Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I based this snippet off of a photo from National Geographic. I sort of wanted to do more with it, but never found the motivation.

_ <https://yourshot.nationalgeographic.com/photos/4056990/> _

_ "'Hand tube' fireworks use 3 kilograms of gunpowder. All fireworks are handmade by the festival participants. The 400-year-old festival pays the evil spirits by the use of fireworks but it is a very dangerous festival." _

 

The barren earth beneath me cracked as another round of explosions blotted out the stars. This ritual would ensure that the coming year would be bountiful, but too many good men had been sacrificed for me to call this tradition ‘good’.  “I know the demons must be paid, but why must it be done this way?” I shouted as acrid smoke filled my lungs. Flames swirled up, hissing and spitting like an angry cat as the firework in my hand emitted a plume of scorching orange smoke. I swung the canister above my head just as the mouth belched a shower of sparks and heat. Ringing erupted in my ears and I staggered back, dropping the scalding container to the ground. One hand rose, gingerly prodding the sides of my face.  Sharp pain shot across my upper cheekbone and I ripped my hand away with a gasp. Long fingers floated hazily before my eyes, covered in soot and slick with fresh blood. A shriek wrenched from my throat as more explosions erupted around me and I collapsed to the ground amidst the small fires, embers still floating in the air.


End file.
